Burns rants

Even in a bitter rant, the basic sincerity of his voice shines through the black of the bitterness!—

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Epistle To The Rev. John M'math, Inclosing A Copy Of "Holy Willie's Prayer," Which He Had Requested

By Robert Burns

While at the stook the shearers cow'r

To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,

Or in gulravage rinnin scowr

To pass the time,

To you I dedicate the hour

In idle rhyme.

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet,

Is grown right eerie now she's done it,

Lest they should blame her,

An' rouse their holy thunder on it

An anathem her.

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,

That I, a simple, country bardie,

Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,

Wha, if they ken me,

Can easy, wi' a single wordie,

Lowse hell upon me.

But I gae mad at their grimaces,

Their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces,

Their three-mile prayers, an' half-mile graces,

Their raxin conscience,

Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces

Waur nor their nonsense.

There's Gaw'n, misca'd waur than a beast,

Wha has mair honour in his breast

Than mony scores as guid's the priest

Wha sae abus'd him:

And may a bard no crack his jest

What way they've us'd him?

See him, the poor man's friend in need,

The gentleman in word an' deed-

An' shall his fame an' honour bleed

By worthless, skellums,

An' not a muse erect her head

To cowe the blellums?

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts

To gie the rascals their deserts,

I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,

An' tell aloud

Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts

To cheat the crowd.

God knows, I'm no the thing I should be,

Nor am I even the thing I could be,

But twenty times I rather would be

An atheist clean,

Than under gospel colours hid be

Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a glass,

An honest man may like a lass,

But mean revenge, an' malice fause

He'll still disdain,

An' then cry zeal for gospel laws,

Like some we ken.

They take religion in their mouth;

They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth,

For what?-to gie their malice skouth

On some puir wight,

An' hunt him down, owre right and ruth,

To ruin straight.

All hail, Religion! maid divine!

Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,

Who in her rough imperfect line

Thus daurs to name thee;

To stigmatise false friends of thine

Can ne'er defame thee.

Tho' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain,

An' far unworthy of thy train,

With trembling voice I tune my strain,

To join with those

Who boldly dare thy cause maintain

In spite of foes:

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,

In spite o' undermining jobs,

In spite o' dark banditti stabs

At worth an' merit,

By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,

But hellish spirit.

O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,

Within thy presbyterial bound

A candid liberal band is found

Of public teachers,

As men, as Christians too, renown'd,

An' manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd;

Sir, in that circle you are fam'd;

An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd

(Which gies you honour)

Even, sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,

An' winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en,

An' if impertinent I've been,

Impute it not, good Sir, in ane

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,

But to his utmost would befriend

Ought that belang'd ye.